


Green is gold

by Gilli_ann



Series: The prisoner in the oak [3]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Nature Magic, Prophetic Visions, Reincarnation, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-28
Updated: 2016-09-28
Packaged: 2018-08-18 05:39:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8151058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gilli_ann/pseuds/Gilli_ann
Summary: Morgana and young Mordred visit a mysterious druid seeress, who proves to have a surprising connection to Morgana.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: The characters belong to the BBC and Shine TV. I intend no copyright infringement and make no profit.
> 
> This is an AU where Mordred still looks and behaves much as he did in Merlin's season 2, although the fic is otherwise set after Morgana and Morgause were ousted from their brief reign of Camelot.

The brook is icy, fed by hidden springs that have never been touched by the sun.

Mordred wades out into it as if this is his right element. He turns back to flash her a bright smile, rivalling the gleam and sparkle of the lethally cold water. 

He beckons her briefly, then gestures upstream towards a small gorge, its steep rocky slopes slick with dripping mosses.

“Come. Someone's waiting.”

Morgana steps gingerly after him, muddy boots in hand, her simple skirt held high. The people of Camelot should see their rightful queen now! She smiles at herself ruefully to soothe the sudden sting of loss. 

Camelot is her home, and she its rightful ruler. She will not long be gone. She will not long look like a beggar woman in the wilds. 

Mordred's green jewel hangs heavy between her breasts, the pendant swinging gently in time with her movements. The hidden gem caresses her skin with its promise of a warlock's doom. She glances downward with a small fleeting smirk. 

If fate proves kind and just, Camelot's queen will return in splendour.

They wade together in silence against the current, passing under the long shadows, the rocks slippery and treacherous under their feet. The water's intense chill rises through her legs and conquers Morgana's whole body. She clenches her jaw, narrows her eyes at the icy torment, and keeps going without comment or complaint. 

There's an elusive scent of decay mixed with the fresh air as they move into the gorge. Soon the steep walls narrow overhead, and up front Morgana can see a cave. The brook issues, burbling, from the cave-mouth. 

Otherwise there's an eerie quiet in this dim and secret place. 

Morgana shudders. She is freezing, cold. 

Just inside the cave there's a flat rocky ledge jutting out above the water. A few simple oil lamps are burning there, small orbs of soft light that humbly hugs the ground. 

“This is where the druids live?” Morgana is glad she can ask the boy this question without opening her mouth or unclenching her jaw. Her teeth would be chattering fit to wake the dead if she tried to speak. 

“This is the secret entrance,” Mordred nods as he responds to her mind, not turning towards her. 

His little frame does not seem to shiver at all. He looks entirely comfortable, stopping in the water to survey the shadows, his right hand lifting in greeting. The lamp light flares all of a sudden, burning with fierce intensity. Morgana has to shield her eyes.

A small shape emerges from the shadows and steps forward into the light that illuminates the ledge. Wide pale-green eyes look down on them searchingly from underneath the hood of a blue woollen cloak.

Those big, blank and dreamy eyes immediately seek Morgana's. 

She's a slight, frail-looking girl, little more than a child. Certainly no older than Mordred, Morgana thinks. Her small form is enveloped completely in a simple blue druid's cloak, her face clearly visible in the lamplight. The rounded cheeks still retain a hint of childhood chubbiness. She's got a button nose, a pink little rosebud mouth; - a sweet but rather plain face. Perhaps she's a peasant child who's taken refuge with the druids. The only feature that truly sets her apart are those shimmering eyes, reflecting the light the way lake water would, hinting at depths below. Those are knowing and far-seeing eyes, Morgana realizes as she is pierced by the intensity of the child's steady gaze. 

There is no doubt in her mind that this child was born with magic.

Morgana smiles at her unguardedly. “Well met, little sister”.

The girl hesitates for a moment, then nods. A blank calm rises and fills her eyes.

“Well met at last, kinswoman,” a deep melodious voice whispers through Morgana's mind. A grown woman's voice. A cultured woman's speak. It tugs for a moment at long-buried memories. Morgana stares, astonished. She has no reply.

The child frowns, shaking her head slightly. Her eyes leave Morgana to seek Mordred instead. She reaches out to him, small pink fingers curling slightly, fingernails shimmering. The lamp light dims again, shadows reaching out to enclose them all.

“Come.”

Morgana follows the other two, aware of her heart thumping in her chest. It's very quiet. There's only the slow drip of water from the cave roof, the faint splashing of the brook. Her companions' sure footfalls are barely audible. 

No further words are spoken.

The damp and gloomy cave proves to be a tunnel, its other entrance hidden under a tilting boulder. The onwards path leads in among tall trees, ancient and forbidding. 

As they leave the cave there's a moment of disconnect and dizziness. It's almost as if they step out into another world, a primeval land, untouched by time. 

The druid girl-child takes them into the forest, away from the caves. All senses sharpened, Morgana follows their mysterious guide. 

Everything is lush and verdant, but it's a deep, dense, and old green, with hints of decomposition at its edges. Long clinging grasses and creepers pull at Morgana's cloak when she passes. The light from above is muted, filtered through leaves as if pushing through the cracked stained-glass windows in Camelot castle. Patches of mist hover over stretches of boggy ground. White tendrils swirl and reach for them with chill fingers, curling around their feet as they walk by. 

A preternatural silence lingers. No birds call from the trees, no wind moves the heavy branches, no small animal scolds them from its den among the tree roots.

There is a curious smell under the heavy boughs, the scent of fresh rain over old rot, of something festering in the deepest shadows. 

The trees are covered in green lichen and black moss. Ivy crawls many of the tall trees, hugging them tight and strangling them slowly – death's embrace is all around, sparkling with dewdrop tears. 

Yet the biggest trees, the imposing oaks, are untouched and stand proud. They are sacred to the druids, Morgana knows. Maybe the druids protect them from harm. 

She curbs her impatience and holds her tongue, asking no questions. She is tired now, and longs for food and a fire, but keeps following the two children. They are a strange pair, looking like two mysterious woodland sprites passing through an enchanted forest. It's as if they are all of them moving within one of the ancient fables she heard the bards recite when she was but a small innocent girl, happy at home with her father. 

_With Gorlois_ , she hastily amends her own thought, annoyed. _Never forget who your real father is. Never forgive!_

“You do well, kinswoman,” the mature woman's voice whispers approvingly in her mind. The small girl up front walks steadily on without pause or stumble.

Morgana wants to snap at her, temper flaring. She's a queen, she needs no praise from a stranger, a mere child at that! She came here to find allies, strong allies, supporters with magic, and what has she found instead? 

“We have found what we seek,” Mordred suddenly sing-songs in her head. “That and more, that and so much more!”

She clamps firmly down on Her anger and walks on.

They reach a clearing in the woods. There is no sign of other people. 

Unease creeps into the corners of Morgana's mind. Whatever Mordred has to say, she came looking for allies and supporters. She had not envisioned this eerie walk steeped in shadows, guided through a dark dream by a spooky child.

She looks to Mordred for reassurance. She trusts him still, as she knows he trusts her. He feels her eyes on him, and turns to send her a smile. Slinking back to her side, he presses close, walking in step with her, a small ghost lending support. He reaches for her hand, a cold finger caressing her wrist. She relaxes at the touch. He is very powerful now, she instinctively knows it and feels it. And he would never betray her. She is as sure of this as of Morgause's support, should her sister ever return to a waking life.

To the one side of the clearing stands a mighty oak, its majestic branches reaching far and wide, its bole split open at the root to form a living cave. 

Their guide stops in front of this tree and turns to face her companions. She makes a sweeping motion, closes her eyes and mutters a brief spell. For a moment a fiery circle burns on the ground, encompassing the oak, the three of them and most of the little clearing. 

The flames wink out abruptly and at once, as if they were illusions. Morgana knows better.

The girl reaches out to her, her woman's voice kind and reassuring. “Give me your hand, dearest. Here at this ancient and sacred place, let me seek to see what lies ahead. It may guide you, and us all.” 

“You have the sight too,” Morgana whispers, excited. It is not a question. 

“Does that surprise you? Surely not.”

“Who are you? Will you not tell me your name at least?” 

The child smiles, rosebud mouth pulling askew in a humourless sneer. “They call me Niniane now. It is near enough.”

“They are blind and stupid,” Mordred scoffs. “You are Vivienne.” 

Morgana gasps. Her mind balks at the realization that is dawning in her.

The girl disregards this exchange. She bends her head over Morgana's cold hand, cradling it with small pale fingers, her brows drawn together, eyes fixed on the open palm. She goes still, nearly rigid. They stand like this; – Morgana's heart speeds up in anticipation, her breath coming fast and shallow. But long minutes pass, and the girl-child neither moves nor speaks. 

“Do tell me what you see,” Morgana pleads at last.

The seeress pushes back her hood, revealing long flaxen hair, tiedin a thick braid. She squares her shoulders and looks up. There is nothing docile about those eyes, there's an elemental, raw and raging hunger in them. 

She strokes a finger across Morgana's palm as if erasing a stain. Her eyes flash golden fire. 

A tingle works its way up Morgana's arm, and she bites her lip in spite of herself.

When the girl speaks again, she chants her silent words like a prophecy.

“I see passion. And power. A golden-haired man ascending, but stumbling on his way. The place next to him is empty. I see Emrys, descending into eternal darkness. A golden crown. A dragon banner, torn and flying on the wind. Most of all, I see you. Blurry glimpses of what will be. What may be. There are more than one path open to you yet. The ways you choose and the friendships you forge may determine the fate of us all. Your power... and _his_ power... it blinds me.... such light!”

The small seeress stumbles back and makes a sweeping gesture in the air between them, as if making bad odours dissipate.

She lowers her head, considering. For a moment she sways on her feet as if stunned. Then she looks up with a childish pout, wrinkling her nose.

“I will see more and clearer in time. Fate rewards the patient and the strong,” her deep voice sings comfortingly. “I will ponder the visions you bring me and divine their message.”

She breathes in, sharply, and angles the exhale upwards to move a small stray lock of flaxen-fair hair out of her eyes. 

“We have met and we have talked. We will soon talk again. I am the guardian of this place. It has never forgotten you, nor have I, and it welcomes you back. We will help you win the wars you wage. This I swear. That is all you need know for now.”

She reaches up, touching her hand to Morgana's cheek, light fingers stroking her soft skin gently.

“How beautiful you look, dearest!” She sighs. “What wondrous gifts are second chances!” 

Abruptly she steps back, her face going blank. She turns away, and flicks her hood back up over her head. 

“Now I'll walk you to the druids and their camp, if you'll just follow me,” she says evenly, speaking out loud for the first time. Her voice is high-pitched, breathy and shrill. Her manner of speaking is simple and churlish. 

She moves off without a backwards glance, and Morgana trudges after her, disconcerted and baffled. If this girl-child truly is a prophetess and a seer, her visions are too oblique, her words little more than those of any soothsayer at a village fair, beguiling simpletons with sleights of hand and mysterious phrases. 

If there was nothing more than this to glimpsing the future, little purpose would it serve. 

“You have much yet to learn, child. Have patience. You are a mere toddler still.” 

The girl in front of Morgana straightens her back with a dismissive shrug, a peasant child posing as a queen, and walks proudly on. 

Morgana feels heat rising into her face, anger and shame joining forces in her blush. She will have to guard her thoughts better. 

She turns to Mordred, who's walking close, a placid expression of glee on his pale little face. She whispers to him, and each spoken syllable hangs in the damp air for a moment before dropping like a dead weight to the soggy ground. A thunderstorm must be approaching.

“Who is she? Tell me, for I need to be sure! How old is she?”

“She is like us,” Mordred responds sweetly, soundlessly, evading her questions.

“Like us? You mean... the magic?”

“Oh, even the druids have magic, Morgana. She's different from them,” he whispers happily. “Very different. Extremely dangerous. Like us.”

“And determined,” comes the deep soundless voice from up ahead, a hint of fierce cold laughter clinging to the words. “Entirely determined. Not even death could part me from my purpose, or from you, daughter of mine.”

Morgana nods, convinced. "I believe you," she say. "Mother."


End file.
